


The Tucker who came to tea

by morred



Category: Thick of It (UK)
Genre: Clegg-bashing, Etonians are the worst, Gen, M/M, being nasty about the Tories, sterotyping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-28 16:11:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/309668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morred/pseuds/morred
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Fall of New Labour, Malcolm pops in to say hello to an old friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tucker who came to tea

There was a knock pitched just loud enough to startle Julius from a post-prandial meditation on the labyrinthine nature of policy negotiation and the difficulties of being a Labour peer (a  Baron , no less - a title that never failed to make him  preen ) advising a Conservative-led coalition because an old friend had begged for your help.  A grey cadaverous head popped round the hour.

‘Mind if I come in? Course you fucking don’t - ancient fucking sacrosanct codes of hospitality. You’re lucky I don’t want your daughter, eh? Your secretary’s bringing tea. Nice wee thing - another new one, Julius? I do hope the last lad’s all right - weeping tears of fucking unrequited love for you, was he?’

Julius tried not to smile as the man Westminster was still inclined to view as the King over the Water walked into his office and glanced about him like an estate agent valuing an unprepossessing property.

‘Good afternoon, Malcolm. Slanderous as always, I see. Justin took up a posting to Washington as it happens. How are you? I’m glad to see you’ve not been laid low by one of these unpleasant winter bugs doing the rounds. It really is quite unseasonably cold for March, is it not? Though my grandmother did always use to say ...’

‘I’m tippitty fuckitty top, Julius, thank you so very fucking much for asking. You look well. Been laying of the biscuits, have you? Or out running with your best friend the DPM? Very fucking svelte.’

Julius flushed. ‘Well, one does one’s best. To what do I owe this pleasure?’

‘Just passing though, Julius. Ko-Ko and Pooh-Bah have decided there should be a cross-party media strategy to create a new culture of  transparency. Which prob’ly means they’ve had their phones hacked and want t’be reassured it’s mutually fucking assured destruction if any of us mention it. Though  entre nous , Julius, I’ll eat my Blackberry if anyone’s been arsed to bug Miller minor. And none of their problems will be anything a quick call to Rupert or the Rothschilds wouldn’t fucking solve. But, they call, I answer. I know my fucking place.’ He gave a tiny savage bow.

Malcolm broke off from further insights into the mechanics of government as the secretary* brought in tea (the  second-best  tea service: Julius’s fondness for Malcolm did have its limits) and biscuits. Julius, as ever, took great pleasure watching the delicate way Malcolm navigated cup and saucer. His skin was nearly as translucent as the china.

‘And how’s your boss? Charter a plane for him back from fucking Klosters, did you, or are we still pretending he was at Centre Parcs or painting murals at St David's Big Society Workhouse for the Criminally Poor?’

Julius looked delicately displeased, like a man who finds himself eating a orange fondant when he’d hoped for a strawberry creme. ‘Come now, Malcolm. He is  not my boss - I am  advising the coalition on policy wearing solely my  independent consultation  hat. Whilst all the time clandestinely sporting my yarmulke of tribal Labour loyalty.’ Julius’s brow creased. ‘Not that I wish to appropriate apparel of cultural and religious significance-  or imply anything about our current leadersh- perhaps we’ll term it the  beret of progressive socialism , to be safe.’ Crisis averted, he beamed happily at Malcolm. Malcolm was reminded forcibly why Julius was never allowed to talk to the press. ‘And you know as well as I do that it was two days, during half term...’

‘Your fucking sellout steston suits you, Julius. Goes well with your baldy swimming cap. You should get them to let you use the same stuff they put on the fucking PM’s face. Stop that fucking disco ball of human flesh look. That’s Malc’s wee tip of the fucking day, for you. Don’t ever say I’m unkind to you. And half term my  arse , Julius. What are all his nannies for? Surely one of them’s actually s’posed to look after the kids?’

‘The PM’s trip was rather  last minute and as such... Not, Malcolm, that it’s in any way my position to make  excuses for them.’

‘It’s an easy mistake for your mate the Human Condom to make, though, I can see that.’ Malcolm mused. ‘Someone should have set a reminder on his Blackberry - mine sends me a note listing who’s next due a bollockectomy. He could have a whole  series of fucking reminders. Ding! Remove head from arse. Ding! Remove head from  own arse. Ding! Dinner with wife. Ding! Time to appear on Desert Island Discs. Ding! JB on arms tour, NB run country. Ding! Resign.’ He smiled, almost fondly. 

Julius sipped at his tea, letting his eyes fall shut for a second as the steam wafted gently up. ‘Very droll. Please don’t call him that, Malcolm. Whilst I appreciate you have to maintain your reputation for scaling the heady heights of baroque grotesquery - ha, Versailles as painted by Bosch, perhaps -’

‘What’s fucking Versailles got to do with washing machines?’ Malcolm asked, watching Julius innocently over the rim of his cup.

‘Hieronymus  Bosch,’ Julius permitted himself a small roll of the eyes at this  quite deliberate baiting, ‘ - but nevertheless, I do think that  particular epithet demonstrates a general  lack of appreciation for the delicate and difficult position -’

‘’s an accurate term,’ Malcolm insisted, cutting across Julius’s mellifluous defence of the Deputy Prime Minister. ‘He’s there to protect the PM, may fucking coals rain down on his shiny blow-dried head, from catching anything nasty while he’s fucking over the plebs. And doing a fucking good job of it, pardon the pun.’

Julius spluttered into his Darjeeling.

‘That’s one thing the posh fuckers do know about,’ Malcolm went on, warming to his theme. ‘Protection. Fucking common sense, ‘cause otherwise they’d be besieged by wee brats saying “Remember that dairymaid you fucked in the upper fifth? She’s me mam - give me a trust fund or I call Max Clifford.”’

‘How I’ve missed our little chats, Malcolm,’ Julius said wearily. ‘ Was there anything  particular you wished to discuss, or did you come here solely to share your outmoded beliefs about the public school system- ’ Malcolm raised an eyebrow.  ‘Dairymaids , Malcolm. Really. And  had I been aware of any  irregularities  in his school record, I would have included them in my pre-election dossier. I’m afraid the trail has either been swept very carefully clean, or-’

‘I know, I know. I’m sure you did your best, Jul’us. It’s just a fucking  shame , that’s all. An’ I can see the way it’s going. Rightful heirs to power back in charge... you must feel right at fucking home.’

‘ Malcolm \- I remain as committed as  ever  to the progressive cause. In fact if you took the  care  to read my latest policy, which is in fact  recycled  from something I was proposing shortly before our  fall from grace -’ Julius’s voice rose in pitch until he was forced to take a calming breath. Really, he was slipping. Raising one’s voice was so  rarely an effective communications strategy, not least when dealing with Malcolm Tucker. He was out of practice, that’s all. And Malcolm always  could rile him.

‘All right, Hugh Bonerville. No need to fucking hyperventilate. Everyone knows you’re the nice sort of Earl who lets the servants have a whole half day off when all their children die of fucking dropsy. I’ve written a special wee note that you’re to be spared when the revolution comes.’

There was an awkward silence. Julius did wish he were able to ascertain with more  conviction  when Malcolm was merely  joking . Of course it was  quite possible that such a memo did exist. Probably it was in the keeping of James McDonald, which was not a comforting thought.

Just as Julius was about to rush headlong into the silence, Malcolm stood. ‘Well, thanks for the tea, Julius. Must be getting on. Can’t be late for my audience with Bill and Ben, the Etontoff Men, can I? Not that they'll be there in person, of course. Too busy skiing. Nice to catch up.’ He gave a shark-like grin.

‘Likewise. Always a pleasure, Malcolm. And if- well, I am consulting on an  independent  basis, so if you ever  wished to ... though I understand you’re consulting the unions at present ...’

Malcolm smiled unpleasantly. ‘That won’t last long. Unlike some people, I plan to win the next election. The poison beer’s been ordered.’

Julius tried not to stare as the Armani-clad former Thin White Mugabe of Westminster ( such an offensive moniker, though lord knows Malcolm had seemed to rejoice in it) stalked to the door. ‘Bye Malcolm. Chin up.’

‘Toodle-fucking-pip, Julius.’

* Joel, the latest in an apparently endless parade of Julius’s secretaries and aides, and quite definitely conforming to the type: Oxbridge-educated, whip-smart and extremely decorative. Joel, Malcolm noted, was probably on the Coalition’s lists as evidence of their commitment to diversity and socially mobility, as a faint accent betrayed his roots somewhere north of the Watford Gap.


End file.
